


The Seventh Day

by manic_intent



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Allusions to offscreen mass minor character deaths, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Assumes you have watched the film or at least the trailers, Dark!Superman, It's the apocalypse after all, M/M, Patently unhealthy relationships, That AU that takes place in the world of Bruce's postapocalyptic dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6394726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The force of Superman’s landing tricked up a small shockwave that rattled tremors through the bike and up Bruce’s ankles, dust billowing up in a hazy cloud around the brilliant red cloak. Superman straightened up with balletic grace, his expression flint-hard as he looked over at Bruce, hands clenched into fists. </p><p>“Morning to you too,” Bruce offered, his voice dry as the dust that caked up the road before him. Most of the world was dust now. </p><p>“Still not afraid.”</p><p>“What can I say?” Bruce rasped out a laugh, startled despite himself. “When you’ve watched the world go to hell… there’s not much left to be afraid <i>of</i>. You’ve <i>already</i> killed us all. Whether we die now or maybe in two, three decades when all the groundwater runs out or turns toxic from being overdrawn…” Bruce lifted a shoulder into a shrug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Day

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched the BvS film.  
> Ummm.  
> HAHA.  
> Dawn of Justice more like How Many Times Does Lois Lane have to Be Rescued in a Movie amirite 
> 
> To be honest, after spending days reading review titles off my usual go-to news sites (NYT, WashPo, CNN, TIME, Vox etc), BvS was actually not as bad as I thought it would be. I guess my expectations had been duly lowered to the floor. Some parts did make me roll my eyes very hard, and some parts were boring, but for the most part, I was entertained, which is all I want out of a big budget movie anyway. And Batfleck was surprisingly great. Fandom wise, those kinds of obstinate, violent, broken characters are exactly my favourite... ^^;; 
> 
> Actually the best part of the film for me as a lover of post-apocalyptic fiction/franchises was the dream sequence (possibly a premonition sequence?). So for my 2nd AU of this franchise, I thought… why not. :) Post-apocalyptic BvS is pretty much the movie I would’ve preferred to see. 
> 
> If you haven’t watched the film or the BvS trailers, there might seem to be a weird gap between part III and IV. Basically, in the film, Batman has this weird dream where he’s in a post-apocalyptic world, trying to get his hands on a shipment of Kryptonite, but it all goes to hell. 
> 
> **TLDR** : SPOILERS (for the dream sequence), ALTERNATE UNIVERSE (in case it wasn’t obvious), DARK SUPERMAN

0.

On the First Day God arrived unto Earth as a childe, and saw that all was good;  
On the Second Day God lived among us as a man, and saw that there was much to be done;  
On the Third Day the other Gods arrived unto the world, and God fought God upon the Earth;  
On the Fourth Day the other Gods were slain, and the First God saw that all was good again;  
On the Fifth Day the devil whispered sedition, and sowed the first seeds of doubt among humankind;  
On the Sixth Day God’s best-beloved was slain, and in His rage and grief God moved the Earth closer to the sun, to scour it clean. So began the End of Days.

\- The Last Gospel

I.

Morning. Bruce’s body clock always woke him up at sun-up, even a mile underground and in the dark. In Year Zero, this had been a thorough mindfuck: with the change in the Earth’s rotational speed a sidereal day was longer now by six hours, and it had taken Bruce a whole half a year to readjust. The lights banked on in low thrumming _thunks_ as he swung himself groggily off his bunk, scratching at his jaw as he yawned, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

His reflection caught from the small mirror square he kept propped on a shelf by the steel door: bloodshot eyes, lean, unshaven, hair sprinkling to gray, hard-eyed. The End of Days look: hardened and grim, thin, not so much a survivor but a pale ghost, one foot in the grave, refusing to fade. Bruce tugged a hand through his hair and exhaled. The gym should still be quiet at this hour. 

Breakfast in the cantina was still down to gruel, tasteless, despite Alfred’s best efforts. Some sort of flux had taken out a quarter of the year’s mushroom crop and it had yet to be fixed. Bruce was glad that _that_ wasn’t his problem. Across the cantina, Ivy looked exhausted, huddled in with a handful of volunteers and their sole other qualified botanist, hands wrapped around cups of some of their last stores of mushroom tea. The end of the world made for strange alliances. She nodded curtly at him when she noticed his stare, and Bruce gave her a little nod in return as he scraped up the last of his morning’s portion with his spoon. It was hard to believe that only five years ago, Bruce had never been in a position to understand what prolonged rationed starvation felt like. Now, he was always hungry. Just like everyone else. 

There were fewer people in the war room today. Bruce didn’t blame them, occupied in studying the latest topographical map that they had of the Free Zone: or what had once been parts of Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia. From where they were, the badlands stretched east and west, and nobody sane would be hot for a foray out there, especially if they were going to go close to the Red Zone to the west, a belt of no man’s land cutting up from Louisiana up to Minnesota. What was once Kansas was just on the other side, and _He_ would be there: it would be suicide. Even heading east was fraught with problems, and raiders would be the very least of their concerns. The salt flats of what had been the great oceans of the world were home to the Swarm - going too close to the coastline, inked a bright yellow on the map, would mean becoming lunch for some straying parademon. 

“James, Sarah, mine patrol, third level,” Bruce said, when the last of the stragglers had nosed in. He portioned out those on guard duty and those on runner duty on autopilot. Everyone else was pulling scav weight, Bruce included. They’d need guns and fuel for The Plan, and they were short on the former and painfully low on the latter. 

Barbara Gordon lingered by the door as the rest filed out. She smiled at him as Bruce stared wearily at her, slim and petite like her mother had been, her hair shorn to her skull, dressed in dusty kevlar and combat BDU pants, like everyone else. “Want company?”

“No.” Bruce said gruffly. “You’re assigned to Atlanta.”

“And you’re going to go further east?”

“Maybe.” 

Barbara sighed. “You know, the Free Zone would probably collapse without you. Running off on your own is dangerous _and_ crazy.”

“Bullshit. I’m not running the Zone. It’s too big for that.” 

“Like it or not, you’re a symbol.” Barbara tapped two fingers over her heart meaningfully, where she probably had an inked tattoo of a bat symbol, like most of the younger survivors. Bruce hated that she did. Commissioner Gordon would never have approved of that. “So don’t die, old man.” 

“I don’t plan to yet.” He glowered at her until she smirked and left, then he went to the armoury to select a pistol and a rifle, cleaning and checking the weaps, again on auto. There was no point for them where he was going today. He knew what day it was. 

Alfred caught up with him on the shaftway upwards to the depot. His once impeccable clothes had long given way to discoloured shirts and dust-brown pants, and his eyes looked sunken into his face, wreathed with wrinkles, perpetually tired. Alfred was far too old for this war. “Master Bruce.”

“Really, Alfred, how many times must I tell you, there’s no more need for that.” 

Alfred ignored him. “Some day you’re going to dance one too many rounds with the devil.”

“Story of my life.”

“Don’t go to the surface today,” Alfred said bluntly. “Whatever would be the point? You’re only tempting fate.” 

“You always worry too much.” Bruce clasped Alfred’s shoulder tightly, and forced himself to smile, an uneven effort. “See you later, Alfred.”

II.

It didn’t take long this year. Bruce had sped within sight of the ruins of Washington he heard the tell-tale supersonic boom high above him. He pulled up, the plated bike idling, waiting. The lead-lined cowl felt uncomfortably hot on his face.

The force of Superman’s landing tricked up a small shockwave that rattled tremors through the bike and up Bruce’s ankles, dust billowing up in a hazy cloud around the brilliant red cloak. Superman straightened up with balletic grace, his expression flint-hard as he looked over at Bruce, hands clenched into fists. 

“Morning to you too,” Bruce offered, his voice dry as the dust that caked up the road before him. Most of the world was dust now. 

“Still not afraid.”

“What can I say?” Bruce rasped out a laugh, startled despite himself. “When you’ve watched the world go to hell… there’s not much left to be afraid _of_. You’ve _already_ killed us all. Whether we die now or maybe in two, three decades when all the groundwater runs out or turns toxic from being overdrawn…” Bruce lifted a shoulder into a shrug. 

“I could still erase the Free Zones.”

“You _could_. But I know why you haven’t.” Bruce shot back. “Same way humans never got around to eradicating roaches. They’re there, they’re hard to get rid of, and they can’t actually do that much harm.” 

“Roaches,” Superman repeated, with a thin smile. “Now there’s an analogy.” 

“That’s right. Me, my friends in the Free Zone, your soldiers, hell,” Bruce added, because he was feeling reckless today, “Even your old sweetheart.” 

“Lois,” Superman narrowed his eyes. “Her name was Lois. And you dare speak of her, on this day? The day she was murdered?”

“Why not? It’s why you’re here. I’ve seen her articles before, you know. Covered a lot of social stuff, but she dreamed of being a frontlines reporter, didn’t she? What a time she’d have had right now. How’s the war going on with the Amazonians? ‘Humanity’s Last Stand is Led By Wonder Women / Vanilla Human Roaches Can Only Spectate From the Sidelines’. There’s a headline.”

There was a long and icy pause, where Bruce knew that he was looking full into the face of death, dancing close, the scythe at his neck, then Superman exhaled, teeth grit tight, looking away. “I really should kill you.”

“Mm. The things you say.”

“Do you know why I haven’t?” Superman’s stare swung back to Bruce’s, smiling that awful smile again, like a gashed flaw in an otherwise perfect sculpture, Pygmalion’s masterpiece come alive, animated by hate. “Death is too easy for a roach. It’s still possible for you to suffer. You have years more in which to suffer. And I will be there,” Superman said softly, “Watching.”

Bruce waited until Superman had jetted off, the dirt displaced, shoring up by Bruce’s boots and bike, before he muttered, “I didn’t kill her.” 

It was an empty thought. He had not cared then whether Lois had lived or died, just one of many of the members of the press who had been within Congress when the wheelchair bomb had gone off. And it was better that she was dead. Hatred had shorn humanity away from Lois Lane’s lover, and left God in its place, omniscient, capricious, merciless. 

Somedays Bruce wondered why he still bothered with the cowl. It was probably obvious that Superman knew who he was. And it wasn’t as though secrecy still mattered. The end of the world had evened the slate. They were _all_ roaches now, crawling in the dirt of a dead world, looking for a way to bite. Sentiment, maybe. Bruce started up the bike again, the engine coughing in ugly gasps, and sped onwards to the carcass of Washington.

III.

Considering that the whole _world_ was a flying demon colony now, blowing up a ravine of them probably shouldn’t feel as satisfying as it did. At least they didn’t seem to reproduce. Areas that were cleared of nests stayed cleared, and although the world was peppered now by the flare-like paradimensional gates, which stood like pillars of fire near the ruins of most major cities, the gates seemed now silent.

That had been an unforeseen twist in their Ragnarok, Bruce felt, as he and Barbara slid quietly down their vantage point, swathed in sand-coloured cloaks. The devil had come out to play, and had allied with God to do it. At least it lent the end of the world a suitably mythological shade of drama. 

Barbara stared askance at Bruce as they closed up the hatch above them and climbed back down into the freshly dug tunnel. Amazonian tech made digging out their little ant-caves and tunnels a quick two-person job in lieu of a major excavating project, and Bruce wrapped up the heavy device carefully, slinging it over his shoulder. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Barbara noted.

“Blowing up demons does that for me.” 

Barbara laughed. “ _Bat_ demons.”

“Go ahead, rub it in.” 

“It doesn’t really make a difference, you know,” Barbara added, though she was still grinning. “The world’s full of them. And not even the Amazonians know how many Free Zones there are left in the world. We can only speculate.” 

Bruce nodded. A world that had once been interconnected by satellite tech was now silent. Crossing the salt plains was a death sentence to anyone but a pack of well-prepared Amazonians, and even then, they’d quite likely have to face Superman head-on, without their fortress tech. Their only connection to Diana was another piece of Amazonian tech, a two-way communication cube that somehow worked without satellites. 

“There’s no hope, is there?” Barbara said quietly. “Even if someday we get rid of the demons. Even if we get rid of Superman. He’s brought us too close to the sun. We can’t change that.” 

“That depends,” Bruce said carefully, “On what you mean by ‘hope’.”

“You can’t fool me,” Barbara patted Bruce’s elbow, her smile tight. “You can make all the speeches you want, but I know why you’re still fighting. Why you still make all those trips out by yourself. Revenge. You’re out for revenge. But there’s no way to kill God.” 

“We’ll see.” There _was_ a way. Bruce had known that much, before the world ended. But there was no use in false hope until he could make certain that the method and the means still existed. “Besides, Superman is by far the biggest problem out there. If we can get rid of him, we’ll give the world a fighting chance.” 

“There’s nothing left to fight for.” 

“Then why _are_ you here?” Bruce shot back, a little annoyed. His temper frayed easily nowadays. 

“Same reason you are, Wayne. I want to look into his eyes when he dies.” Barbara’s hands flexed over the grip of her holstered pistols. “What can I say? A girl can dream.” 

He’ll tell her about the bullet, Bruce decided. Once they were back in the bunker, safely lead-lined.

IV.

It had all been going _so_ well. That should’ve been Bruce’s first warning sign, really. Strung from the ceiling in chains, unmasked, his every breath acrid with the stench of charred flesh and bone, Bruce’s only real consolation was that at least he’d managed to convince Barbara to run interference, elsewhere. She should’ve gone to ground by now, after seeing how spectacularly badly the mission had rung out. Alfred was still back in the Free Zone, as were Tam and Lucius. Diana and her sisters were still free. The kryptonite weapon was still out there.

And so, having had nothing left to lose for years, Bruce faced death with a hard smile of his own, teeth bared. His head throbbed from an ill-fated headbutt and he could taste blood in his mouth, coppery thick. “What’s the matter?” Bruce drawled, as Superman just stared, that square jaw clenched tight. “You’ve got me.” 

Superman circled around, that odd silky cloak eddying in his wake, a blood-red wave. “And I’m going to let you go.” 

Bruce spat out a hoarse, disbelieving laugh. “That’s nice. You’re back on my Christmas card list.” 

“I might break something first,” Superman mused, and Bruce flinched violently as he felt a palm press against his shoulder, then slide lower, to the small of his back. His skin crawled, bile rising, as a thumb rubbed over his spine: he could feel the heat of it even through his kevlar. “This?” The hand pulled higher, tracing the base of his rib cage. “Or one of these? I might let you pick.” 

A non-essential break? Fingers. Fingers would be nice. Bruce swallowed, breathless, and started to laugh again, unable to help it, still disbelieving. The fingers drew back sharply, as though startled. “You really need to work on your gangster act. I’ve heard better from two-bit thugs back in Gotham.”

“Or I could kill you now.” The fingers were back, up against his nape now, tracing under the sweaty edge of his hair. Bruce tried not to stiffen. 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bruce grit his teeth as the fingers stayed where they were, impossibly hot, branding that casual touch into his skin. “Like whether you think your nice Kansas momma would be proud of you now, hm? Heard Kansas is dust now, like the rest of the world. No more cornfields, no more wheat. What _did_ happen to momma? I never heard.” 

Superman’s expression twisted, and his hands dug against Bruce’s neck, painfully tight for a moment before relaxing. “Don’t speak of her.” 

“Died too, did she?” Bruce asked mockingly. “Bet you didn’t think about _that_. Us humans are pretty fragile. What happened, a raid? Skin cancer- _urk!_ ” 

Superman eased his grip from around Bruce’s throat. “I _said_ -“

“Heard you the first time,” Bruce gasped, and started to laugh again, brittle this time, coughing wetly. He spat to the side, a gob of blood and saliva, teeth bared. Superman’s eyes were so dilated now that there was only a faint hint of blue against all that black, human and alien at the same time. No. Not human. _Never_ human. “What’s the matter?” Bruce growled, when Superman said nothing. “Come on. Threaten me again. It was getting funny… _aaah!_ ” 

Superman deftly clicked the arm he had just casually dislocated back into its socket, expressionless. He glanced up, and with a blast of heat, melted the ring that was holding Bruce’s chains to the ceiling. Superman caught the links before Bruce could even react, and with a sharp twist, fused the molten ends together. Then he tugged, still expressionless, as Bruce winced and bit down on another cry of pain. 

“Some time ago you mentioned the ‘Wonder Women’,” Superman said neutrally. “I have something to show you.”

V.

Paradise Island burned.

Demons were perched everywhere, immense, squabbling gargoyles that crouched over elegant marble arches and sleek columns, over sweeping sculptures that had withstood Time and the world of Man. It had taken a God to fell the city, which bled oily, thick dark smoke into the sky from still-burning embers. Bruce averted his eyes from the shadows. The bodies had been dragged into the shade, where they would take longer to spoil, but the parademons were still hungry. To his right, an exquisite tower tiled with mother-of-pearl lay shattered, its spine crushed down over a sundered forum and a temple, its golden crown partly melted over a blackened park. For the first time in years, Bruce felt thoroughly ill. 

“When?” he managed to whisper. They stood before a fountain of three rearing horses, one headless now, one blackened with a stray energy bolt. Once it had been some sort of fountain, long now run dry. 

“It occurred to me after our little chat that my reasons for allowing the hostile gridlock with the Amazonians to continue were giving certain people the wrong impression.” 

“You-“ With some difficulty, Bruce swallowed the rest of his words, his nausea, struggling to control his fury. It was better than despair. Perhaps Diana was still alive. Maybe she had escaped. Instead, after a few unsteady breaths, Bruce started to chuckle, all thin, hoarse gasps, a wrecked and strangled sound that he could not recognise, cored with a black mirth. Superman narrowed his eyes slightly, his only hint of surprise, and Bruce smirked at him, teeth bloodied and bared. “Fuck. If I’d _known_ that you were going to listen to me I would’ve asked for something nicer.” 

“You’re still not afraid,” Superman said, and now he seemed curious. 

“What do the dead have to fear?” Bruce spat to the side, contemptuous. “When are you letting me go, by the way? Not to rush you, but I have places to be.” 

“You’re trying to goad me into killing you,” Superman guessed out aloud. “I won’t give you that satisfaction.” He tugged on the chains, and Bruce nearly overbalanced onto his knees, stumbling upright at the last moment. “Move.” 

If Superman was human, Bruce thought critically, as he grudgingly obeyed, getting out of this situation would be easy. A quick loop of the chain around Superman’s neck and he could choke him to death. And as to the parademons, well, one thing at a time. Since it _was_ Superman, though, someone who didn’t seem to need to breathe in _space_ , Bruce knew it was just going to end up as embarrassing as the attempted headbutt from before. For now, he would just have to content himself with imagining murder. 

His shoulder ached, unmercifully, and it hurt a little more each time the chain was tugged. Bruce swallowed down each gasp of pain and tried his best to look bored. They walked through the ruins of a civilisation more elegant and more advanced than Bruce had ever personally known, and it felt like violation, padding through its bones, kicking up its ashes. The death-rattle of Paradise Island was echoed in the hissed chatter of demons. 

Eventually they got to some sort of temple, mostly intact, if one ignored the energy scars and the bloodstains and the sulfur-leather demon stench. As far as Bruce could tell, looking curiously at the intact frescoes, this was Athena’s temple, or at least, a temple dedicated to a Goddess like her. Stone owls watched them pass, indifferent to his fate. On the ground beneath his feet, a partly shattered mosaic told an exquisitely fashioned story about the Goddess born from another God’s thoughts, full-formed, ready for war. When _had_ Amazonian technology started to wildly leave the rest of mankind behind? Bruce had never bothered to ask. Now that question would probably die unanswered with him. 

Distracted by the frescoes, Bruce didn’t notice the great stone altar before them until Superman jerked him close and shoved him against it. The edge of the altar had been smoothed down, but Bruce still bit out a curse as the edge of a stone owl’s wing jabbed into his hips, hard enough to bruise. Owls bearing spears burst in a flock under the flat surface of the altar in gorgeous detail, forever on the first cusp of the hunt. 

Bruce grinned again, made feral by proximity. “Didn’t see you as the human sacrificing sort.” 

“Maybe I wanted you to learn some wisdom.” 

“Too late for that. War, though, war I understand.” 

Superman wound the chain slowly around one wrist, as though reeling himself closer, until Bruce’s hands flexed instinctively into fists, inches away from Superman’s belly. Punching him would probably break Bruce’s fingers. But maybe it was going to be worth the first fractional second of satisfaction. 

“I don’t think that you do,” Superman whispered against his cheek, his breath hot, in some mockery of tenderness. “‘War’ presumes an even footing between opponents.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, his next breath unsteady. In life, there was nothing that was more intimate than absolute hatred. Superman let out a low, warm huff, as though he’d heard that sentiment, drawing back, his hand patting proprietarily over Bruce’s thigh. To the conqueror, the spoils. This was getting predictable after all. Superman’s fingers traced his jaw with exaggerated tenderness, the chains clinking between them. His eyes were dark.

“And yet,” Superman mused, “No one knows how to hurt me like you do.” 

He leaned forward, the kiss made taunting by indifference, but Bruce didn’t bother to jerk away even as the chains went slack. Sex had almost always meant nothing to Bruce anyway: it had just been one part of a layered work of social armour. He kissed Superman back, defiant to the last, opening his mouth for it, pushing closer. There was ash on his mouth, dust on their tongues. They kissed with death between them, and it was the most visceral kiss of Bruce’s life. Galatea had never asked to be hewn from stone, not this way: the final tipping point that had caused the world to be broken was of a madman’s design, out of all their hands. Bruce could understand that. He had lived with madmen for years, fought them, imprisoned them. He could even understand the subtle madness of revenge, for he had lived with _that_ within him all his life. Against his mouth, Superman made the first wounded sound that Bruce had ever heard from him, a moan.

“Clark,” Bruce gasped, when they broke fractionally for air, and smiled tightly, sight unseen, as Superman flinched, jerking against Bruce’s knees, the first of many new wounds. A reminder of what had come before.

Superman shoved him down abruptly, knocking the breath from him, dazing him against the the altar. “Kal-El,” Superman corrected curtly. “That’s my name.” 

How fittingly alien. Bruce grinned, and licked the ash off his lips. “Ashamed of the one your _human_ parents gave you already?” 

Kal-El’s eyes blazed red for a moment, then he snarled, climbing on, the heel of his palm digging against Bruce’s injured shoulder, hard enough that Bruce let out a pained yelp, startled. “Shut _up_ ,” Kal-El snapped, and there was something uglier to his rage now, something that Bruce recognised, none of that cold alien indifference. This was something that was far more human. 

“Shut up,” Kal-El repeated in a rumbling growl, and kissed Bruce roughly when he started to laugh, mauling his lip, licking human blood off Bruce’s teeth. This time they kissed until Bruce was lightheaded from lack of air, fading in and out of consciousness. He could feel Kal-El’s arousal against his hip, and he registered his own in a dull throb against his kevlar armour, pressed tight against bulletproof padding. Kal-El’s mouth was pressed dangerously close to Bruce’s pulse, and he was breathing in low uneven gasps, like an animal, dying. Bruce stayed still, and sucked on his lip. The taste of blood reminded him that he was thirsty. 

Bruce remained still as Kal-El tore off his kevlar vest, ripping it casually along the seams and tossing it off the altar, leaving Bruce in his coat and undershirt, cargo pants and boots. With the chains, Kal-El jerked Bruce’s wrists up above his head, pinning them to the stone, and studied him, cold again, the only hint of his temper the flinty set to his mouth. “What’s the matter,” Bruce probed, smirking. “Haven’t you done this before?”

That startled a blink out of Kal-El. “No.” 

“Could’ve fooled me. That room, the chains, the rings on the roof, the kneeling guards-“ 

This time when Kal-El kissed Bruce to shut him up it was hard enough that his teeth ached. Angrily, still defiant, Bruce tipped up his hips, lust welded tightly together with loathing, and felt Kal-El shudder against him, angling closer. It chafed and _hurt_ as they rubbed together, still clothed, and Bruce was getting light-headed again, needing air, his hands scratching uselessly at Kal-El’s wrists, knees tightening up against immovable hips. Kal-El jerked up as he twitched against Bruce, with a low and strangled groan, eyes squeezed shut even as Bruce gulped in air gratefully, blinking away spots from his vision. Dimly, he realized with a certain wry and savage humour that he had never been this hard before. 

As he started to chuckle, Kal-El flinched, uncertainty flicking briefly over his face before it was replaced by annoyance. He unwound the chain, allowing just enough give for him to shift back and pick open the button and zipper on Bruce’s pants, tugging down pants and underwear both. Incredulous, Bruce let out a shocked yelp as Kal-El licked a stripe up his cock, and Kal-El smirked, murder in his eyes, lapping at him with a lover’s conscientious attention, sucking curiously at the swollen tip as Bruce bucked with a low oath. 

“So this is how you get under the Batman’s skin,” Kal-El noted, warm breath over the slit, and Bruce shivered. Bastard. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bruce rasped out, braced for violence, but all Kal-El did was smirk again and swallow him down, lips sealing tight, just the hint of teeth, a beginner’s lack of finesse as he sucked, awkward and impatient. Bruce’s moan felt punched right out of him as his hips thrust up before he could stop himself. The heat of that _mouth_. Kal-El’s tongue, surprisingly soft, pressing up under Bruce’s cock with greedy confidence. Disoriented, Bruce was confused as he started to come, hips rolling easily up against Kal-El’s pliant mouth, pushing deeper, the obscene swollen flush of all that flesh gone taut under those red lips. Kal-El was smirking as he angled back up, mouth full, and made Bruce taste himself, all bitter filth, ground against ash.

VI.

“Asshole,” Bruce muttered, once Kal-El was out of sight. Superman had let him go, as promised, but on the wrong _fucking_ side of the world. As far as Bruce could tell from the shape of the ruins they had passed, he was in Portugal, on the cracked remnants of the N247. Before him was the vastness of what had once been the North Atlantic Ocean. Wearily, Bruce looked around. Just like the rest of the world, Portugal was dust.

Trying to make it across on foot was suicide, particularly without water or any sort of supplies. Swearing under his breath, Bruce turned on his heel, trying to get his bearings. He vaguely remembered having played golf within sight of the Atlantic Ocean before: hopefully, what remained of the resorts still had supplies that hadn’t yet been looted. 

Bruce straightened up, wincing, and rubbed a palm absently over his still-aching shoulder, squinting against the lonely horizon, at the scattered ruins that stretched, broken, over the back of what had once been human civilisation. He pressed his parched tongue against the closed wound against his lip, and swallowed a laugh, brittle with futility. Then he began, grimly, to walk. 

Somewhere out there, there was still a way to kill God.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent  
> \--
> 
>  **Some disclaimers and notes** :  
>  **Yes the science of this 'verse happening is extremely unlikely.** However, this is a world where there are flying demons, alien spaceships with chemical engines that can cross light years of distance in a flash, and a very human-like alien who can defy gravity/shoot heat laser/vision/etc from his eyeballs. So we are in handwave Science verse as it is. **TLDR** : why discuss science in a world where characters can break all the laws


End file.
